Reborne in Light
by writer on the roof
Summary: Erik is slowly recovering from the loss of his world. One year later, he stumbles upon someone who needs his help to survive. The events after haunt Erik, as he searches for a release from the bitter memories. But is everything truly lost, as he believes?
1. Prologue

Chapter 1: Prologue

Hello. I am Erik. You may have heard of me, or you may not have. I go by many names, by many faces. But, for now, Erik is all that I am. A tragedy in my recent past had left me broken, abandoned, homeless. The one woman I had loved, who I had nurtured, deserted me, for a whole man. I let myself succumb to my emotions, and destroyed all that I had worked so hard to create. Years, many long years, wasted, by my efforts to keep her, and my irascible temper. But it was those that in the end drove her away. Leaving me with nothing.

I ask you not for pity. Having faced several hardships in my life, and having coped with the consequences, I have emerged stronger. This has seamlessly embedded itself into my nature over time, increasing in power tenfold with every blow. But with her...Christine, I thought never to recover. Days and nights melded to one, as I hid myself from the world I had revealed myself to, and been shunned from. I cast into shadow, sleeping only when I could no longer stand. I shrouded myself in anger. But, I survived. However little I wished for life, I lived on. Hiding in the sewers beneath the opera house, I spent almost a year alone in the darkness. The world had spat me out, and I had no urge to return so quickly to that which had cast me out.

So I lived again in my solitude, my utmost enemy. I myself was the thing I feared most. While death, which was all others could provide for me, seems terrible to most, I relished in the fact that I might soon pass away. But my own mind was the ultimate torture tool, replaying memories of what I had had, and then lost by my own devices. I could recall every little detail in my head of the blunt happiness I'd had in the Opera Populaire. How selfish was I for throwing away it all for a silly little girl who'd never really loved me.

But she wasn't silly; I had loved her, _still_ loved her, no matter how much I wished to let go. She had been the cause of my sorrows, of my pain. But, I loved her nonetheless, and love forgives all wrongs.

It was on the anniversary of the burning of the Opera Populaire, on which I met with a fate destined to alter my mortal life, forever.

**Hey, if you think this has potential, or you want to see where it goes, than please review! Otherwise I get the feeling it's a failure, which isn't great, and I know what you who read are thinking. So please review!**


	2. Full Circle

Chapter 1: Full Circle

* * *

I waited for darkness in my small cavern beneath the Parisian streets. When it arrived, I would go in search of something extraordinary tonight. For tonight, it was a night most worthy of celebration. A full year had passed since the burning of the Opera Populaire. A year since I had brought down everything that I had created, and for the past twenty of so years had called home, out of self-pity. Out of anger. Jealousy. Love. One year ago, tonight, I had thrown it all away for _her_, and it had ruined everything. So tonight I celebrate. 

I got up, and began to pace about the small quarters. There being no other way to determine the time, I tick off the minutes distactedly according to my internal clock. Nearly 20 or so minutes left till it would be dark enough to set out. I rolled my eyes internally, and pace more leisurely. No point in wasting useful energy.

Having much time at one's disposure is a damning thing, especially for someone with memories like mine. It only invites the inevitable, and no good comes from that. But, I allowed myself to succumb like the fool I was. How so much had changed in the past year. I was nearly suicidal after her rejection, forcing myself throught the time, hardly alive. Nothing had mattered anymore. My closest friends, if you could call them that, more than distanced themselves from me after the incident. They believed I had gone too far this time, even for myself. Deep down, I suppose I believed them, but I am not known for looking deep down, and so I coninued in denial. Only one friend would have stood by me throught my trials. Antoinette Giry. But I had pushed her away as well, and in the end she stayed away. So I was left to suffer alone.

I spare you the details of my life those first six months, by only saying that I became-ironically enough-a phantom, something which I had previously been assumed to be at the Opera. I will go on to mention that one day I became aware of my situation, and the rapid decline of my my position. I had no intention of ending my life, and so I made necessary changes to support myself in a...tolerable, if not questionable, lifestyle. I began to return at each dawn to my cavern beneath the streets. I stole wood from abandoned shipping crates, and fashioned a bed from the planks, and a small table set. I could find what I needed by stealing, and what I did not steal, I bought using my enormous profits from years of swindling hundreds of thousands of francs from previous Opera Populaire managers. However, I much prefered to steal from the local bars, and so my fortune lay, for the most part, untouched. And so I have lived the last six months in such a manner.

Disconnecting myself from my thoughts, I realized I had around seven minutes before I needed to leave. I drew out my street mask, which was nothing more than a mask painted a fleshy color; and while it was useless in the daylight, it provided a rather preferable concealer in the dusk of Paris. I could pass almost unnoticed beneath the dim streetlights, drawing only the rare double-take. Adjusting the mask so it covered my diseased half, I donned my thick, high-collared cloak, a top hat which I tilted at a slight angle to better shade my mask, and left. It took about a minute to reach the grate that covered the tunnel entrance. I quickly reached it, and listened intently for sounds above. There were none. I deftly undid the spring latch, and climbed out of the sewer. I reset the thin string stretched across the entrance to my tunel's grate. In the gloom and darknees of the alleyway in which my entrance was shrouded, it was invisible. I was careful to check it after each venture to Paris above. There never were any signs of entry, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

I dusted my cloak, and moved out to the end of the alley. The street was deserted except for the petty street corner whores and a few small groups of auspicious looking people, undoubtedly on their way to a bar. Usually, I would head in the same direction as those groups, but I was in search of something nicer for tonight. So, I turned left, and swiftly traveled towards Paris' commoner district. Here I would have a harder time blending, but I would fare well enough by sticking to the shadows. I continued on, slowing my pace to a less conspicuous one as I met the throngs of late-nighters. I caught the scent of hot stew and beer, and swiveled slightly to glimpse a tavern. It would do. I did not want to remain in the district much longer; my mask was already drawing curious second looks from several passersby. I turned, and angled toward the ally along the tavern. I found the kitchen door easily enough, and began my wait.

* * *

It must have been nearly an hour by the time a fight broke out near the rear door. Both the cook and a man who appeared to be the tavern owner appeared, as well as a dozen men, who began to pull the brawlers apart. I edged along the small crowd, and ducked into the kitchen. I located a basket used for deliveries, and packed away as much hot food as it would hold. Then I lifted a bottle of ale, and one of wine, and left. The fight was apparently winding down, and people were dissipating.

As I made to turn the corner, the cook looked up and, noting my pilfered goods, pointed. "HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING, SWINE! COME BACK WITH THOSE!"

Cursing my damned luck and logic, I swiftly began towards a more populated street, listening to the sounds behind me. I could sense the rapid footfalls of several men, and quickened my pace towards the road. I immersed myself in the throng, too late, I realized, to notice how crowded and harried the people were. The vast swarm of them swept me towards a billowing pillar of black smoke, that gave the air a more distinct charred smell as I and those surrounding me drew closer to the source of the smoke and commotion. I tried to break free from the center of the crowd, fighting the fleshy sea, and it cost me. An elbow that shoved back knocked my mask from my face, causing me to hiss in anger and draw my cloak high about my face. By now, I had dropped my feast in the midst of everything, and simply surrendered to the tide. I could not break free of the crowd, what with more people were adding with each turn, but at least my drawn cloak attracted no unwanted attention. Several people had pressed articles of clothing to their faces in attempts to block out that horrible smell.

The crowd then ceased pulling, and had given wide berth to the burning building, a church with an immensely high steeple, watching from afar. I pushed through, and came to the dark edge of the crowd, intent on scavenging something to eat, but was caught by the scream. I turned to face the church once more, and saw nothing. But upon climbing on a large shipping crate nearby, I saw the hell that had broken loose.

A woman ran screaming from the church through a side door. Her clothes were on fire, and she was becomming engulfed in the flames. She dropped to the cobblestone street, and began rolling feverently. A group of men, numbering around twenty or so, laughed, and one poured the contents of a bottle on her. The flames rose, and she screamed louder. Alcohol. The men jeered, shouting insults at her.

"Gypsy!"

"Whore! Daughter of Satan!"

"Burn, she-witch! Burn!"

The woman made an attempt to crawl, but halted as her body collapsed into a smoldering pile of ashes. My temper began to rise, memories of my own mistreatment resurfacing. I held my position on the crate, and watched as more burning, crumbling bodies fell on the streets, and no one in the crowd moved to help them. From the screams emitting from the church itself, many more were trapped inside. I felt my face harden in fury of this hellish abuse, and my nails dug into the bare palms of my hands. I knew I should have left, I knew I shouldn't have stayed to watch, but now I couldn't tear myself from the agony.

The screams faded, and stopped, and yet I still watched the flames, as the scene laid bare before me. I had been slowly gathering the strength to turn and scrape back to the tunnels, and as I made to dismount from the crate, I heard a whisper of astonishment flicker through the crowd. Whipping my head, I saw a blackened form of a man stumble from the rear of the building. The twenty-odd men turned to him, and their faces stretched into a look of rage.

"You!" One man shouted, advancing a few steps with a finger raised. "What sort of man are you._ Bâtard_! You should have burned, along with the rest of your devil trash! You befouls the streets of beautiful Paris, with that scum you lodge in a church on _our streets_! For that, you must pay your debts, _Prêtre_! Tonight, you will see your father, Satan, once more!"

The drunken group jeered loudly, and advanced. Several broke off the ends of empty bottles, and stabbed the priest with the sharp edges. I watched a moment, my blood boiling, fury roaring. Then I could take it no longer.

Leaping, I cleared the crowd, and roared at the men. They turned, anger on their crazed faces, but shock took over as they saw my hideousness. For the first time in my life, I was somewhat thankful for my deformity. But I chose not to dwell on the consequences of my choice, and simply handed all thoughts and emotions over to instinct. Charging at them, I roared louder, and bared my hands menacingly. The men stared, frozen in terror, and then fled. The large crowd behind me began to scream, and flee away from this insane, disgusting, ravaging monster that had interrupted their fun. I drew closer to the priest, and knelt close to him. He was very badly burnt, and had a collection of deep wounds from the glass. But, yet, amazingly, he was alive. His eyelids fluttered, and his breathing was shallow. I could tell he would not last long in his state. I had a thought to leave him, and be on my way, for someone would send for the polizè, and it would not take long for them to arrive, but instantly dismissed this notion. I could not leave him to die in such pain after having saved him from the crowd. No, I would have to take him back to the tunnels. Damn me and my impulses.

I gathered him in my arms, and he stirred slightly, and moaned. I began to carry him away, and his head lolled to face the flames, still eating away at his church. I glanced down again at him as we reached the mouth of the alley, and was suprised to see his eyes looking up at me, unfocused, but still on my face. I felt a flare of irritation at my exposed face beneath his eyes, and I stopped. His mouth twitched, and I inclined my head closer to his cracked lips. His eyes shut, then, and he again twitched his lips, but this time I had heard what the priest had said. The shock of the word nearly caused me to drop the man, and the flinch roused me. I started foward, into my familiar darkness, pondering the single word he had called me. Angel.

* * *

_French Translations:_

_Bâtard: bastard_

_Prêtre: priest_


	3. L'ange d'Obscurité

Chapter 2: L'ange d'Obscurité

* * *

It was hell making my way back to the sewers with a dying man in my arms. 

The man's weight seemed ever more immense with every step I took, and every breath he took seemed as if it were to be his last; I was amazed that he would be able to cling so indefatigably to life, and was mildly curious as to what would stir in him such a want to live. However unwilling I might be to take my life, I saw no reason to object if I fell at the hands of another. Though, I mused, would I really? Why should I allow some imbecilic fool to claim the glory for the murder of who was thought to be unkillable? Even in death, it would be shame to me; but for the matter, now was hardly the time to be worrying of impertinent details of my demise. For the time being, I quite literally had my hands full.

As I slipped through backways and sidestreets, searching urgently for a shrotcut route around the crowds, I was constantly running into the edges of the large crowd that had been gathered around the burning church. After a while of quieter alleys, I nearly surged into a street filled with _polizè, _and suddenly realized that I had managed to circle back around towards the burning church. Damning God and my luck, I whirled back into the darkness, and began again in the direction of my sewers.

At last I began to see stragglers from the crowd, and again did my best to avoid them as I continued on. I was beginnng to fret at the faintness of breath of my companion; no, fret is not the right word, for men such as I do not fret like common women. But, I began to feel as though, despite his admirable struggles, his grasp on life was slipping. I needed to get him somewhere safe, for I began to realise that my tunnels were too far to make it. Besides this, I had not the right medical supplies to care for the priest, nor the experience. I stopped for a moment, knowing that walking without a course would only hinder me. Ducking into a dark alley, I laid the man on the cool, moist ground, and knelt by his head. His breathing was much shallower and harsher, I noted, and he was twitching. His face was too black to tell how pale he was, but I knew still that his odds were not good. Oh, damn me and my impulses twice over, I thought angrily.

A noise behind me caught my attention, and I turned to see a silhouette of a woman at the mouth of the alley. She looked as if she had a hand pressed to her mouth, and I followed her gaze to the corpse-like body of the priest behind me. I tensed, uncertain about what to do. She had caught me unawares; I knew I would be unable to abandon the dying man to flee for safety, but yet I hastened to form some method of escape.

The priest made a soft hacking noise, drawing me from my reverie. As I turned again to face him, I noticed through the corners of my eyes the woman move a half-pace foward, hesitatingly. I felt the anxiety rolling off of her slight form, and I could envision the internal battle she was waging, with her wits pitted against her good-nature. I glanced a final time at the man, inhaled deeply, and in one fluid motion, stood and retreated to shadow. The woman gasped, thinking I inclined towards her suddenly, and whirled to run out of the mouth of the shadowy alley. With a determined effort, I pushed an adress from my lungs, "Wait, Madame."

She froze, but did not turn. I tried again to speak, but found that only silence graced my lips. But as I saw she was to leave once more, I smothered my stifiling pride. "Can you..help ..him?" The last words fell quietly from my mouth, but by her posture I knew she had heard me. In a second's hesitation, the priest between us rasped quietly, reminding her of her want to help. I couched beside him as the woman sank down beside me. "My husband's hôtel is near, Monsieur, we must hurry."

The woman made a brief motion as to make out my face; I sharply shifted away from her, and gently cradled the near-corpse in my arms. He was beginning to feel lighter, as if his will was evaporating into the cool Parisian night like our hot breath in the air. It seemed impossible to me then that he could still live, or that he could even feel a purpose to his existance at this point. But as the man still continued to breathe, I would continue to fight. "Lead."

Hardly a moment, and we arrived on the doorstep of a small, battered hôtel. The woman led me swiftly past the warmly-lit windows of the front, and into an small side-alley where a heavy oaken door was set into aged, crumbling brick. She fitted a heavy copper key into the lock, swinging the door inward instantly. A shaft of soft light highlighted the uneven planes of my face, as I grew agonizingly aware by the madame's looks that I was without any form of cloak or cover. My disease was laid bare in her eyes, and I could see written into the shallow creases of her face the poorly-hidden disgust. I hardened within myself, writing a cold face over my emotions. Pushing past her into the room, I saw a clean bed lying through another door. I hastened through it, paying no attention to my surroundings. Laying the man gently onto the soft pillows, I withdrew to a corner of the rom, where the light of the bedside candle reached most faintly. The woman entered the room seconds after, carrying a rough ashwood box in her small white hands. She set the box on a chair by the bed, and left for a moment. She returned with a large lantern, held with a burnt rag in two hands, which she set on the chair.

Stepping back for a moment she studied him, eyebrows kint together, assesing the damage done, and what could be done to remedy its effects. Her eyes darted questioningly up to me for less than a second, and then back to the patient. Nodding, the madame rummaged through the box quickly to withdraw from it an amber bottle. As she took a clean rag from somewhere within her skirts, she inclined her head at me motioning me forward to the bedside. I moved, and at her insructions, began dabbing the wounds inflicted from the broken bottles with the liquid. The strong acidic smell was sharp in my nostrils, as I began to clean him. The priest lay utterly still, not even so much as flinching at my touch. Meanwhile, the woman took a honey-coloured salve from the box, and tenderly rubbed it into the reddish patches of flesh, working downward. Upon reaching the man's hands, which had several black fingers, she hesitated; then plunging again into the box, she emerged with a sharp knife.

I halted my actions to watch her. The woman ran the shining blade through the flame from the candle to sterilize it, and then once more examined his fingers. I felt in me the realization of what was to happen as she slid the box beneath the left hand, which was closest to her. Raising the knife, she singled out the last two fingers, and spread them. The dull thunk echoed in my heart as she brought the blade down with cool precision to amputate the lifeless fingers. No blood trickled out of the stumps; not a movement from the man was evident at all. It was disturbing to me that he could feel nothing at this loss of limb, nor seemed to show any reaction as 3 more fingers were severed. It also disturbed me how composed this young woman could be as she so calmly carry out such a task. Scrutinizing her face more clearly, I saw what I might have assumed to be a moment of nausea; but it vanished so suddenly I am at loss to say it was ever truly there.

We continued to work for minutes more, and then I receeded to my corner as I finished my task. My gaze never wavered from the man's chest, where I found the only movement, however faint. This is how I came to notice before the woman that something was wrong.

The priest's chest stopped in mid-breath, and was still for a moment. As I bore my gaze more closely at him, a sudden spasm errupted that shook his whole body. His breathing returned, but it was erratic, and harsh, much heavier that it had been moments before. The agony grating inside him was so obviously tangible that I too felt his pain; and I knew that something was going terribly awry, that he was slipping away. My rage swelled in my gut, and I grabbed the woman's arm fiercely. "What's...wrong...with him?"

I choked the words out haltingly; knowing in my desparate state that she knew no better than I what was occuring. However, an inkling of thought was in her eyes, and I could read what was going to come. "No," I spat, my voice clouded with rage and emotion. But I could see it was real, in her eyes and in his movements.

Adrennaline flooded me, driving out the rage, the despair, leaving me empty. I looked into the wasted face of the priest and felt nothing but the powerful surge in my veins. Everything that might have life in my grew cold. I saw the fear in the woman's eyes as she saw the stone-like masque my face had become. And I knew that again I had lost my broken reminants of humanity. The woman's eyes, so drenched in emotion, were sickening. The priest's marred body was beyond gone. And I...was nothing.

The room grew too confining, the walls melting to encase me. In a swift bound, I cleared the house, fleeing the suffocating warmth of the hôtel for the barren night. It enveloped me as I merged into it, stitching my ripped edges into the desolate world. But I was so apart from it, and from everything as I ran through the darkest hours preceeding dawn. Now freed into this abyss, I had no purpose, no being; the streets blended together as I left my sanity behind in my wake.

I wondered why, in some crevice of my subconcience, I should care so much of a man I had known-but not even known-for only a few hours. He was a true stranger to me, but yet, here I was, a shade of a man, in a desperate emotional struggle over the mortality of this one insignificant soul. Why should I even give a damn about his existance, when my own was so fragile itself? How could I, I who has become what I have, be so shaken, so weak, so _human_ as to allow this to affect me as it has? It wasn't the man that had so greatly affected me, I later realized.

It was the death.

* * *

_French Translations:_

_L'ange d'Obscurité: Angel of Darkness_

_hôtel : hotel or inn_


End file.
